Mary sat with her gloved hands resting softly in her lap.

Hands that now knew how to use a knife to slice a man’s diaphragm, fingers that knew how to gouge a man’s eyes. Her new husband had odd ideas for the sort of knowledge a wife ought to possess, and they went a bit further than how to tie a man up.

They were hardly the sort of hands that ought to be wearing gloves, but one needed gloves with a ball gown, and the gold brocade confection she was wearing—another one of Eleanor’s too-small memories—demanded the proper accoutrements, even if it pinched at the seams and itched at the neckline. She thought longingly of her brown wool day dresses, hanging safely in West’s wardrobe, but one did not wear ordinary wool gowns to speak with dukes.

Or so she kept reminding herself.

As her sister’s maid hovered over her wielding a dangerous-looking pair of curling tongs, Eleanor barked directions from where she lounged upon the bed. “Put more curls near her forehead, O’Brien. We want Mary to look stunning tonight. Everyone who sees her must know immediately why Westmore fell in love with her.”

“Yes, Lady Ashington,” the maid murmured, then wrapped another finger’s length of hair onto the heated tongs.

Mary closed her eyes. As if an hour of primping and some well-placed curls could turn her into a raving beauty. Being thought something less than beautiful was the least of her worries tonight. She had a vicious little dagger tucked in her reticule, and a carefully rehearsed plan to speak to every duke on her half of the list. She ought to feel brave. Excited.

So why did she feel close to wilting instead?

She opened her eyes, sneaking a peek at the maid through the mirror. Probably because the last hour of sitting so still while the maid had hovered over her had freshly stirred the doubts she’d tried to suppress. O’Brien, her sister’s maid, had blond hair and soft, round features to match her ample curves. Was this the sort of woman her husband was attracted to? Someone uncomplicated, a pretty distraction? Or was it more that any willing woman would do?

Mary willed her thoughts not to stray in that direction. The first week of her marriage had been the most gloriously confusing of her life. If West was already straying, he was showing no signs of it with her. He sought her out at every opportunity. Kissed her in corners. Held her hand beneath the dinner table, and whisked her abovestairs for dessert. Just two hours ago, he had pulled her from her bath and then proceeded to play upon her damp body as if it were a beautiful instrument.

His attentions made her feel . . . hopeful. Her doubts had been nearly drowned out by the rhythm of so many deliciously decadent days of love-making, days where he scarcely let her out of his sight. She must have misheard, that day in the hallway. Or perhaps, West had changed his mind and decided he was happy with her after all.

But now that she was face-to-face with the pretty servant she suspected of snaring his attentions, she was no longer so sure.

A pounding at the door pulled her attention in a new direction. Mary jerked against the insistent pull of the curling tongs. “Ow!” she exclaimed, forcing herself to sit still until the maid was done with her torture.

“Your new husband seems anxious to see you,” Eleanor observed, shifting to a sitting position on the bed and arranging her skirts about her.

“He is just excited about tonight. It’s our first ball as husband and wife, you know.” Mary forced a light laugh. Everyone—Eleanor especially—was supposed to believe this was a love match. If only she could so easily convince herself. “Either that, or he’s come to confess his undying love again,” she added, reminding herself to smile. As the last curl slid from the tongs and the loud knocking came again, Mary motioned for the maid to answer the door, then turned in her chair to face her sister. “I believe he hopes to meet friends at the ball tonight. I understand Mr. Grant will likely be there.”

And with any luck, a traitorous duke.

Eleanor smiled—just a little. “I well remember those days when Ashington was so anxious to see me he couldn’t wait a decent hour before sweeping me away for a kiss.” She ruefully gestured to her enormous middle. “Now it seems he cannot wait to escape on business.”

It was the first time Mary had heard her sister utter a cross word about her husband. “I am sure Lord Ashington will be back soon,” she soothed.

“Even if he returns tomorrow, he will not want to stay long,” Eleanor said bitterly, “with me growing larger by the second.”

“I promise you, it will soon be over.” Mary didn’t like the strain she saw on her sister’s face, wished she could ease her sister’s discomfort. Though, she prayed it would not be too soon. Dr. Merial had said the baby could come as early as July, but as it was still June, she couldn’t help but remain worried about Eleanor’s health.

Though Mary had fully expected to see West at the door, as O’Brien opened it a very large, unshaven man burst into the room. “Eleanor?” he shouted, stumbling past the startled servant, his bloodshot eyes landing on the woman in the bed.

Eleanor gave a shriek, her hands immediately flying to her unkempt hair. “Ashington!”

He rushed to the bedside. “I received your note.” He fell to his knees and clutched at Eleanor’s hand. “But you gave no indication of the problem, and so I rode all night, like the very devil, to get here. Is everything all right? The baby is well?”

“The baby is fine.” Eleanor twisted her hand from her husband’s. “But no, everything is not all right, you insensitive clod. I . . . I’ve needed you here. How could you leave me for so long? In the weeks you’ve been gone, I’ve become the size of a draft horse, I’m not sleeping well, and I’ve ruined my sister’s life!”

“Not sleeping well?” He reared back, as if trying to discern whether the woman railing at him from the bed held any resemblance to the woman he had married. “Is . . . ah . . . that why you are sleeping here?” he asked in confusion. “At Cardwell House?”

“Are you even listening to me? Do you want to know why I am here, at Cardwell House?” she demanded, agitation setting her diamond earbobs swinging. “There are fleas in our house, Ashington. Thousands of them.”

“Fleas?” Ashington echoed uncertainly.

“We need a dog,” Eleanor commanded. “On account of the rats.”

“A dog? You’ve called me back about a dog?” Ashington’s head swiveled, and his befuddled gaze swept past Mary at the dressing table, to the open-mouthed maid still standing by the door. “And what is this about rats?”

“There are no rats.” Mary quickly shook her head.

“If there are no rats,” Ashington said, sitting back on his heels, “and this has nothing to do with the baby, will somebody please tell me what in the deuces is going on?”

West handed Ashington a glass of brandy, though the man looked as though he could really use a bottle of whisky.

“Sit.” West pointed toward a chair in front of the low-burning fire, though why his father’s study needed a fire in this summer heat was anyone’s guess. It was probably demanded in some obscure servant’s handbook, a list of instructions that ensured butlers frowned at all times and that a fire was kept burning in dark studies regardless of need.

In spite of the gravity of the situation, his lips twitched.

No doubt Mary would have read that book, too.

As soon as this business was over, he would look for a home where he and Mary could settle, start a proper life together, whether it be in Yorkshire or London. Let her decide when and where fires should be kept, how many servants to hire, how many children to come. His bright, rosy view of this hoped-for future depended on getting through tonight, however, and finding once and for all the sort of evidence that might properly prove Southingham was the traitor.

He felt guilty for not having told Mary what he had learned, but then, she had a habit of pursuing things blindly, without giving proper thought to all the potential outcomes. It was almost like she was determined to turn the page too quickly, write her own ending. But this wasn’t a book. A happy ending was anything but assured. He couldn’t afford to take any chances. Not with the queen’s life.

And not with his wife’s life, either.

West corked the decanter and left his own glass empty, wanting to keep a clear head for the coming night. “Er . . . Mary asked me to explain a few things to you, while she tries to calm your wife down.”

“Mary? Do you mean Miss Channing? Eleanor’s sister?”

West nodded.

Ashington eyed him suspiciously, then tossed the glass back, staring up at him through bleary, bloodshot eyes. “You’ve my undying thanks, Westmore, letting my wife stay here like this. I can’t pretend to know what’s going on. I am afraid she’s come unhinged, babbling about fleas and wanting a dog, and some nonsense about ruining her sister’s life.”

“She didn’t ruin her sister’s life,” West said firmly. He couldn’t let anyone else take that blame—he’d taken care of that job neatly himself.

Ashington stared morosely into the fire. “I never would have left to see to this business at my country estate if I’d known how this pregnancy would affect her. I swear to you, she seemed fine when I left.”

West poured the man a second glass, not even bothering to replace the stopper this time. This could take a while, and he wasn’t yet sure of how much he wanted to say. “If there is one thing I have learned in the short course of my own marriage, it is that you can’t predict what a wife will or will not do.”

Ashington’s gaze jerked toward him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Miss Channing and I were married. Six days ago, by special license.”

“But . . . why?” Ashington looked stunned. “How?”

“The usual way, I assure you. Well, the usual way for me. We formed an attraction and the gossip rags noticed.” He shrugged, as if it really didn’t matter, when in truth, the woman they were discussing held his entire world in her ink-stained hands. “The fates demanded a sacrifice.”

Ashington stood up, bristling. “You compromised my wife’s sister?”

“Calm yourself. There is no need for anger.” West shoved the second full glass toward the man. “I didn’t compromise her, not really. But the gossip rags went on a rant, and it seemed best to silence the chatter. I promise you, I hold your sister-in-law in the highest regard.”

Ashington snatched up the glass, his knuckles white against the crystal glass. “Come now, Westmore, what really happened? Everyone knows your reputation, but Eleanor’s sister is a quiet thing, withdrawn. She’s never even been to London before now. When Eleanor asked her sister to serve as a companion during her confinement, I thought it was a ripping good idea. My wife needs a quieting influence in her life.” He snorted ruefully. “As you can well see.”

“A quieting influence?” West rolled his eyes. “Mary?” Since he’d met her, he had sprinted through St. Paul’s Cathedral brandishing a loaded pistol and visited the finest brothel in London without even wanting to sample the wares. And her endless lists, her unexpected bravery—he’d never met a less quiet female in his life. “She is like a spring rainstorm,” he said, wondering if he ought to just pour a glass of brandy for himself. “She charms you into believing she’s a quiet, gentle sort, while all the while she’s hiding a bolt of lightning.”

Ashington stared at him as if his head had grown two sizes. “Honestly, a spring rainstorm? Bolts of lightning? Does she inspire you to sing about daffodils and baby birds, as well?” He raised his hands, making the brandy tilt in the glass. “Your reputation for pranks and philandering is one thing, Westmore, but a poet you are not. Tell me the truth about why my wife is here, at Cardwell House, and why you really married Miss Channing.” He took a swig from his glass. “She isn’t even the pretty sister.”

West bristled. No wonder the man had imagined his wife would be fine left home alone in the last two months of a difficult pregnancy. He was oblivious. Had he even noticed the two women were identical twins? Although, not so identical.

Given the choice, West knew who he would marry again.

But if Ashington wanted the truth, West would give it to him. It was nearly a relief to have someone demand it, someone in a position to help fix it. Despite being something of an arse where his pregnant wife was concerned, Ashington was generally well-respected, someone who might even be able to convince Scotland Yard to take action. “It is true that Mary and I were caught in a compromising situation, but that isn’t why we married. We overheard a plot to kill Queen Victoria. One of the men involved is a duke, and as Scotland Yard refuses to believe me, we have been left with no choice but to try to stop them ourselves.”

Ashington tilted his head. “Queen Victoria, you say?”

“We’ve been making inquiries, a bit at a time, trying to track them down. But six days ago, Mary received a threatening note from someone on your household staff, and so I married her to keep her close and ensure her protection. She wouldn’t agree to the plan without her sister coming, too, and so we unleashed a vial of fleas on your hallway carpet.”

Ashington cleared his throat. “You are claiming—let me see if I have this straight—that someone on my household staff is plotting to kill Queen Victoria, and that a vial of fleas is the only reason you married my wife’s sister.”

“Yes. No.” West felt an impotent rage building. “That is not the point.”

Ashington’s brow rose. “Then what is the point?”

“That Mary is clearly every bit as attractive as your wife!” West snarled, well recognizing the disbelief on Ashington’s face. It perfectly matched the sneer he’d seen on the face of the constable at Scotland Yard.

Instead of taking offense, Ashington burst out laughing, the brandy sloshing over the sides of his glass. He stepped forward and slapped West on the back. “Christ, Westmore, your reputation is well-earned, I’d say. You’ll do anything to get a woman in your bed.”

“I didn’t . . .” West checked himself. Why did he feel the need to defend himself to this man? Ashington was a bumbling idiot who had left his new wife alone for far longer than was prudent when she was in such a delicate state. He himself would never make such an imprudent decision.

The thought drew him up short. Well. The thought of even having to make that choice seemed impossible, at the moment. He might be thinking of a buying a home where they could raise a family, but was his wife? Mary was wildly willing in his bed, sweetly inventive, her enthusiasm and innocence inspiring ever higher levels of lust and appreciation. But she had insisted on continuing to use the French letters.

Questioned his faithfulness with her timid little speech about the tedium of lemons.

It seemed no one was bound to trust his word.

“Well, no matter what rig you’ve pulled this time, if you’ve been forced to marry her for all of it, I’d say you’ve paid your dues,” Ashington snorted, his face a jovial shade of red. “So I won’t call you out. Your reputation for dueling aside, it won’t do to go about killing new family members.” His smile turned rueful. “And I really don’t want to make my wife any angrier than she already is.”

“Oh, stuff it, Ashington.” West turned on his heel in disgust. “Take your wife home,” he shouted over his shoulder. “We took care of the fleas days ago. But you should know Lady Ashington has been ordered by the doctor to avoid undue upset until the baby comes. So if she wants a damn dog, I’d suggest you get her one.”